


al miente

by seijuro



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, Pianist Akashi, Poet Nijimura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seijuro/pseuds/seijuro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy laughed, and it was as light as his piano playing. When he stood up from the piano bench, Nijimura could how short he was. “Call me Akashi.”</p><p>There were stars in the black of his eyes and Nijimura watched them burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	al miente

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from basketballpoetsociety @ tumblr! originally written for the rarepair battle!
> 
> tumblr: seijuurouakashi  
> twitter: akanijis

There was rain. It fell down in little rivers, washed down the streets like curtains. It was not raining hard, but it had been raining for a while, and there was enough of it that Nijimura could watch it sweep through the sewers. Between all the houses that lined the streets, not a single one had their shutters open to the rain or cold. The torches glowed at their posts but offered no light, and in the distance, there was the sound of horses and carts rolling down the stone streets.

He almost jumped when Himuro put a hand on his shoulder. “Still trying to get your sea legs?”

Nijimura wriggled out from beneath his hand, shivering in his cloak. The ships brought wind, but he’d always been beneath the deck, and the city had something that made it dark. “It’ll take a while,” Nijimura said, pushing his rain-wet bangs out of his face. “After being on a ship for that long, you forget you have to get off, you know?”

Himuro laughed, pulling his own hood over his head. “The city will be a nice change. Won’t have to worry about living off of fish and stale bread.”

“Oh, thank God,” Nijimura said with such honest relief that Himuro could only laugh again

”Well, we better get moving. I can imagine you’ve already had enough water for a lifetime.”

*

“This is Shuu. Or Nijimura.” Himuro said, closing the tavern door behind him. “He’s my cousin.”

The man standing at the counter looked at Nijimura, wiped it down, and grunted. The room was well-lit and warm between the candles and the heavy wooden door, but it was dim at the stretches beyond the counter. Nijmura could just barely hear piano music.

Himuro shrugged off the heavy cloak and took a seat at the bench, gesturing Nijimura over “Shuu, this is Shirogane. He and I go a little back. Owns the place.”

Nijimura gave him a nod, which Shirogane did not return. “Where did you come from, boy?” Shirogane said, standing between Himuro and Nijimura. Up at front, there was the slow smell of rum.

“Across the sea,” said Nijimura, unbuttoning the front of his cloak. “I sailed here.”

Shirogane let out a burst of throaty laughter. “Well, I figured you didn’t swim. What brings you  _here_ of all places?” He reached across the table and grabbed a large jug.

“I’m here with Tatsuya.”

Shirogane, pouring whatever was in the jug into wooden cups, grunted again. His hair was an odd mix of white and grey, and his face was lined by what could only have been war or time.  _Tough, though. Leather_. “No loyalty to your country at all?”

He pushed the cup towards him. Nijimura noticed it smelled sour and sharp, as if it had curdled in the jug. The piano music had become softer and sweeter.

“Not really,” Nijimura said, taking a swig of the drink. He felt his eyes water as it burned its way down his throat. “Never really stayed in one place long enough, I guess.“

Shirogane hooted his approval, patting Nijimura on the back so hard the drink almost ripped out of him. “You  managed to drink it! Good on you.”

Himuro drank in little sips, grinning when he was done. “He’s a sea-boy. If they can handle the water, they can handle any drink. Even yours.”

Shirogane took the empty cups and tucked them into a basin filled to the brim with soapy water. “Good.” When he looked at them again, he was smiling for the first time since they’d arrived. “It’s good to see you again, Tatsuya.” He pocketed the bag of coins Himuro left on the table. “Your rooms are upstairs by the windows.”

But he spoke again before Nijimura left. “This isn’t the ocean, Nijimura. You’re going to have to pick a side and stick with it here. ‘Specially with that on the horizon.”

From by the stairs, the scars on Shirogane’s arms were apparent. They sprawled up and over his skin like white lightning, clusters of them pressed between the folds of age. He didn’t specify what that was, and Nijimura didn’t ask him to. Something told him he didn’t want to find out.

*

The room was dark as the city outside, and past the curtains and out the glass, the rain had stopped. Small spots of flame were bright against black. There were no horse-drawn carts crowding the streets anymore, and without them, the city slept on. The piano music stopped, and then continued.

*

He crept down the stairs and at the front of the tavern, Shirogane said, “Can’t sleep?”

Nijimura, pushing his hands into his pockets, nodded. “We used to wake up really early. On the ships.”

Shirogane grunted in what Nijimura had come to recognize as agreement. “Did that in the army, too. We’d get up at the asscrack of dawn and run miles in our underwear.”

“The army?” Nijiimura said, taking the bread Shirogane tossed at him.

“Mm. That’s a story for another midnight, boy.”

He bit into the bread, and it was soft. Definitely not stale, Nijimura added mentally. “Why is there piano music?” he asked at last, continuing to gnaw at the bread.

“You noticed that?”

“From my room. I heard it when I was in here, too.”

Shirogane’s sleeves had rolled up to his elbows, and there were scars in every space. “It’s the boy again, isn’t it? Not surprised. He doesn’t do much but sit at that old piano and play.” Shrugging weakly, Shirogane said, “‘Least he’s good.”

Nijimura looked to the room Shirogane had gestured at. Upon seeing the expression on his face, he added, “There’s a piano in that room. A lot of the other rich folk who come in here like a little music while they stuff their faces.”

“I didn’t know there was a piano in here,” said Nijimura.

“Well, now you do.”

The boy in the piano room stopped his music to play scales. Nijimura doubted someone who didn’t live in the place would be allowed to play for the customers. “Does he live here?”

“Sure does.”

“Is he your son?”

Shirogane put down the rag he was holding. “Christ above, boy! So many damned questions! If you’re so interested in him, you can ask him yourself.”

Nijimura looked from the piano room to Shirogane, and said nothing.

“You shy or what? He won’t bite your head off. If you’re as smart as your cousin says, you should worry more about that from  _me_.”

“Is he?” Nijimura asked again. The last bits of bread were gone.

Shirogane gave him a hard look. “Nope.”

“How did he come here, then?”

“Ran away from home. Or something. That boy doesn’t tell, I don’t ask.”

“You keep interesting company.”

Laughing, Shirogane said, “You haven’t even seen half of it yet.”

There was a pause between scales, and the boy in the room moved on to a song.

*

When Nijimura opened the door, there was at first the creeping scent of dust. It wasn’t very strong, but it had a way of seeping right into him and leaving with a cough. The room was large, and even from his spot at the doorway, there was nothing but a piano and the small tables around it. Even sparser than the furniture in the room was its light, and Nijimura flicked one of the switches on. A dim glow overcame them, and the boy sitting at the bench stilled before turning around.

“Why did you turn the light on?” said the boy. He looked very calm and very not what Nijimura expected, even though he was not sure what he did expect in the first place.

“You’ll hurt your eyes trying to look at that sheet music.” Nijimura walked towards the piano and pointed to the papers strewn on the stand. The top of the piano above the keys was covered with a thin layer of dust. He wiped it down with his sleeve.

The boy, looking Nijimura over, pursed his lips and did not answer. He looked young—only about a year or two younger than Nijimura himself, but young enough for it to show on his face. He had fair skin and a startling shock of red hair, but what Nijimura found himself staring at were his eyes. They were very bright, but they were lacking something he had no words for.

“I don’t use the sheet music much, anyway,” the boy said, turning back to the keys. He stopped again to look at Nijimura, gaze unreadable. “So you’re Shirogane’s new stray?”

Nijimura shrugged. “I’m staying here with my cousin, I suppose. From what I’ve heard, you’re more of the stray.”

“Well, I’m not leaving, so I wouldn’t say I’m the stray.”

His hands looked so small that Nijimura began to wonder how they even reached the keys. Nijimura said, “You’re good at playing the piano.”

The boy busied himself with a few scales again. “And you’re good at introductions.” He looked Nijimura in the eye, but his hands still danced across the keys.

Nijimura growled. “Well, I’m Nijimura.”

The boy laughed, and it was as light as his piano playing. “I know. I heard Shirogane talking about you.” When he stood up from the piano bench, Nijimura could how short he was. “Call me Akashi.”

There were stars in the black of his eyes and Nijimura watched them burn.

*

“You’re not from around here,” Akashi proclaimed when Nijimura returned to the piano room. He eyed the tray Nijimura held.

Wordlessly, Nijimura put it on the top of piano. It was stacked with biscuits. “No, I’m not.”

“I could tell,” Akashi said. He switched from scale to song, but his eyes were on the plate. “You talk differently from the rest of us.”

“Do I?” He took one of the biscuits and offered it to Akashi. “You can have some, by the way. They’re for you. I haven’t seen you leave this room today.”

Taking it, Akashi said, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“It’s not really worrying. It’s common sense. Besides,” Nijimura added, leaning against the piano, “I need my dose of music in the morning. After a while, you get used to it, you know?”

“Don’t get comfortable,” Akashi said in between bites.

Nijimura grinned. “Little too late for that.”

Akashi glowered at him when Nijimura said, “Can you play me a song?”

“A song?”

“Yes.” Nijimura sat next to Akashi on the piano bench. “We sang them on the ship.”

“You were on a ship?” Akashi asked. “For how long?”

“A while. I’ve been on a ship more than I’ve been in a home, I think.”

“I see,” Akashi said, and it almost sounded wistful. “Did you like it? The freedom?” His fingers broke into song, but it was slower, somehow.

He thought of Akashi, alone with his music. “I guess it was frightening.”

“Most things are,” Akashi said. He was right beside him, but Nijimura thought he’d never seen him look so far. Without giving Nijimura a chance to answer, Akashi began to play another song. It sounded like rain; he could not hold it in his hands, but there was something tangible in the way it pulsed in the room. Rain, and it was fainter than the silence that followed. Akashi was staring when he turned to look at him.

“Give me a minute,” Akashi said, getting up from the bench and making his way to the door.

He did not come back. Nijimura did not go after him.

*

“I wrote you a poem," Nijimura said. “It’s not much, though.”

Akashi stood in his doorway, silent. “Why?”

“I’m a poet, and you played me a song. It’s only fair.”

Akashi leaned his shoulder against the wall. He looked as though there was more he wanted to say, but all Nijimura heard was a quiet, “Alright.”

“Why are you avoiding me?” Nijimura asked, hand tightening around the paper in his hand. “This isn’t going to solve anything.”

“I’m not.”

“You can’t pretend your problems don’t exist. That’s not going to make them go away.” Pausing, Nijimura said, “What are you afraid of?”

“I told you I wasn’t avoiding you,” Akashi said again. “You’re the one making a big deal out of this.”

Nijimura found it hard to breathe. “Here,” he said at last, “at least take it. I don’t owe you anything anymore.”

He left before he could see Akashi close his door and slump against it.

*

With Akashi holed up in his room and Himuro doing business in town, Nijimura was resigned to sitting with Shirogane. He had his notebook with him, although the words came less often. While they had been almost forcefully brilliant on the sea, in the city, mornings were dreary and grey by comparison. He missed the smell of salt.

A group of men pushed their way into the taverns. They looked old enough to be Shirogane’s age, but beneath their coats, there were swords strapped to their belts. Nijimura felt his heart leap into his throat.

“A drink?” Shirogane asked them, glancing at them for a moment before wiping the table down.

Advancing towards the counter, they seated themselves. They had faces hardened by something Nijimura did not know or want to know, and between them, there was the rushing scent of ocean. It was almost overbearing.

“How long are you going to hold up?” One of the men took the plate and cup Shirogane left on the counter for them. “You can’t have the prince hide out here forever.”

“Watch me.”

The man made an ugly noise. “The prince aside, this city is weak. They’re planning something, and you won’t survive when it happens. I thought I’d tell you for old time’s sake.”

Shirogane went very still. “How do you know this?”

“The people on our side of the sea talk a lot.”

“The king on your side of the sea is damned tyrant,” Shirogane shot, laughter mirthless. From where he sat, it sounded like a battle cry. No, Nijimura thought. It sounded like more than that. It sounded like a promise.

The man—who Nijimura had come to see as the leader of the group—stood up abruptly, cup and plate empty. “And yours is weak. There’s an inevitable outcome.”

“Maybe,” Shirogane said, taking the cup and plate and putting them into the soap bin. He stood in an odd way, at an angle that made it difficult for Nijimura to see the expression on his face. Perhaps that was for the better. His hands had clenched themselves into fists, preparing for the next blow. “But I won’t leave.”

“You’d rather die?” One of the men from the group walked towards the doors as his leader spoke. Nijimura watched him lock it.

“Your stupidity is giving me a headache,” Shirogane said, eyes dark. “Everybody dies.”

They were outnumbered. Nijimura himself could hardly fight, and unarmed as he was, he would only get in Shirogane’s way. The men had four people altogether and the blades at their belts shone like teeth.

“You seem,” said the leader, drawing his sword, “more eager to die than most.”

It was then that Nijimura realize he wasn’t preparing to take the next blow. He was preparing to give it.

Everything went white with silence when Shirogane revealed two sharp daggers in his hands. He leapt over the table and landed a sharp kick to the chest, hard enough for a sick crunching sound to be heard. There were blades everywhere and the faint noise of someone yelling, but between the silver, the silence took over. Were there mouths moving? He wasn’t sure. He tried to move, but his body wouldn’t listen, and—

( _And_?)

—everything burst into damning colour and sound. A bow was drawn, and an arrow ripped through air and flesh. Nijimura looked at the leader. The man had his hand clutched to his collarbones. He saw red. Everybody in the room went quiet with shock.

Akashi lowered his bow. “Next time, I won’t miss.”

When the noise returned, the man wrenched the arrow out of him, gasping harshly. His eyes were mad and crazed with defeat.

Spitting at Akashi’s feet, he said, “The king sends his regards.”

Outside, there was the steady rhythm of rain.

*

Beneath his shirt, there were at least three large gashes. The red had begun to darken, and Himuro returned home with a poultice he smeared over Shirogane’s wounds.

“You shouldn’t have let them in,” he said, unrolling the bandages. “You knew better. Look what happened.”

Nijimura helped Himuro treat them. Most of— _all_ of him understood nothing. The ‘weak city’? The ‘prince’? Akashi was with them, bow away. He hadn’t so much as given Nijimura one look.

“They picked the fight,” Shirogane said, voice thick with scorn. He winced, breathing out heavily when Himuro wrapped the bandages. “I just returned it.”

“You’re a silly old man,” Akashi said, walking towards them.

“You!” Shirogane jumped up, despite Himuro’s protests. “I told you to stay upstairs or in the piano room! They could have killed you, or worse.”

Akashi was calm. “But they didn’t. You were the one who could have been killed, not me. I stepped in as I saw fit.”

For perhaps the first time since they’d met, Shirogane looked at loss for words. “And if the king sends more men?”

Akashi stood up. “Let him. If he was going to send people after me, he would have already.” His voice held a bitter undercurrent.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Shirogane said.

“ _No,_ ” Akashi said, walking towards the piano room. “You wouldn’t.”

*

Akashi said nothing when Nijimura sat next to him on the bench. He was playing, as he always was. They still hadn’t yet made eye contact, but Nijimura thought the nothingness could be enough.

“Prince?” Nijimura said.

Akashi’s fingers stumbled on the keys. “I don’t know what—”

“Are you—”

“Drop it,” Akashi said. He played faster, hands pale with the strain of it. “Please.”

Nijiimura felt his chest tighten. “I need to—”

“I said drop it.” Akashi said again, voice very low. The music stopped.

“Why?”

Akashi still wouldn’t look at him. “It doesn’t concern you.” When he did look at Nijimura, his eyes had taken on a foggy quality. They were eyes people would spend novels and poems and lines trying to describe, only to discover there weren’t enough words. Nijimura wouldn’t fall into the same trap.

“If you could be killed for it, I think it is.”

“I’m not your problem. This isn’t your problem.”

Nijiimura looked at him sadly. “Shirogane is worried, that’s all.”

“He understands,” Akashi said, putting his fingers back to the piano. “Nijimura.  _Drop it_. Please.”

Speaking past the quiet, Nijimura said, “Alright.”

When he left the room, the playing stopped.

*

His heart nearly stopped when he walked into Himuro’s room and saw him packing his things. “What are you doing?” Nijimura said.

Himuro smiled at him, not pausing from the task at hand. “We won’t be leaving yet, Shuu,” he said, folding a shirt, “besides, it’ll be a week before the ship is able to take us.”

“Why are we leaving?”

“You know why,” Himuro said.

*

The people were restless; their city slept, but they did not. Nijimura had categorized the citizens into two: there were the ones pacing the streets like rats, able to smell war and smoke. Then there were the ones who were peacefully oblivious, the ones who were living the lives under the threat from across the sea. Nijimura didn’t know which he fit under. The week crept by, but he wished it never had to pass at all.

“Are you going with us?” he asked Shirogane. Shirogane stopped cleaning the table to look at him. The wounds hadn’t fully healed yet, and though they left him pale, Shirogane was tough.

“Are you stupid, boy?” Shirogane laughed before it turned into a cough. Wiping his mouth, he said, “I have a favour to return.”

“You can do it after they attack,” Himuro said, joining him.

The smile Shirogane gave him was sad, and he patted the table. “I’ve stayed with this stupid old tavern for this long. I’m not going to give her up.”

Himuro opened his mouth and shut it again. “They’ll win. Do you want that?”

Shirogane went back to cleaning. Nijimura noticed the table had already been clean for a while. “I don’t want them to win without me even giving up a fight.”

“We could still get you on the ship,” Himuro said. The hands clenched at his side were shaking. “There’s still time.”

“I’m old, Tatsuya,” Shirogane said at last. “If I’ve got the chance to pick how I’m gonna die, you can bet your asses I’ll take it.” The face he had wasn’t that of someone prepared to fight. It was the one of someone who was prepared to lose. Nijimura felt numb.

“I don’t understand,” Himuro said. The room fell silent when he slammed his fist against the table, only to draw it back again.

Shirogane would not look at him. “You don’t have to.”

*

Akashi wasn’t playing when Nijimura entered the piano room. There were no greetings; there was no time. Akashi looked at him and twisted his hands together when their eyes met.

“Are you leaving?” Akashi asked him, already fully knowing the answer.

Nijimura wanted to laugh. “Tomorrow.”

“Huh,” Akashi said, and nothing else.

“You’re not?”

“I wouldn’t leave that batty old man here by himself.”

“Please,” Nijmura said, “this isn’t your war to fight.”

There were stars in his eyes, and the dark stole some of them back. “Perhaps, but it’s mine to lose.”

He thought  of Akashi with the bow in his hands. He thought of Akashi, unreachable. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

Akashi looked like he wanted to smile. “You said it yourself. Ignoring the problem isn’t going to make it go away.”

“Neither will dying.”

Akashi bit his lip. “I never told you.”

“What?” He turned to face Akashi, heart leaping in his throat.

He did smile, bitter and somehow sad. “The poem you wrote me. I liked it. You went and wrote me something, and all I played you was an awful song.”

“You can make up for it,” said Nijimura. “Play me another one.”

“Maybe,” Akashi said, “the next time we see each other. I promise.” It was more than a promise. It was a goodbye.

Nijimura knew. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” Akashi said. “I don’t owe you anything anymore.”

He began to play and he did not stop.

*

The ships smelled like they always did: salt. It was familiar, but it was no longer home, and he’d never really realized how much it smelled like blood. Himuro stood beside him, staring into the city. They hadn’t yet left, but a part of Nijimura wished they had. (Then, he thought, he would no longer have to look back.)

“You could still go back,” Himuro said.

“You know I couldn’t.”

He saw Akashi and Shirogane standing on the docks, far away enough that their expressions were unreadable. He wasn’t sure if that was better.

The ship began to pull away, and he saw less and less of them until there was none left at all.

Nijimura looked up into the grey. There was rain.

*

He woke up to the scent of smoke. Himuro urged him back to bed, saying, “It’s just the cooks. It smells strong, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Nijimura said, heading for the deck. Himuro didn’t stop him.

In the distance, just far enough away for it to be the city, Nijimura saw smoke rising from a mass of flame.

He turned to head below the decks, and he did not look back.


End file.
